


Soft

by prinsisolde



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 11:04:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16135922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prinsisolde/pseuds/prinsisolde
Summary: Sometimes it's 1AM and you can't sleep because of anxiety, and you think about alternate universes, and you make them as soft as you possibly can to soothe your anxiety, but you also make them slightly bittersweet because you're really bummed about the things you're anxious about. And then you get out of bed to write one of them down before it disappears, and post it online before you can think better of it.I put modern setting for those who want to avoid that, because there are some jarring references. It could take place whenever, because time is a flat circle.





	Soft

He woke up surrounded by voices. Distant, soft, indistinct, sweet, lovely voices, all around him, filling the room, the air, his lungs, his heart. One of them was closer, an impossibly even sweeter, warmer, kinder voice, that made his chest fill with soft, dormant laughter. He could see their face, looking down on him. Even that was lovely. Everything was lovely and warm and beautiful.

\- I love you, he whispered. Who are you?

\- I'm Joly, and I'm your friend, the beautiful face responded.

\- Well, yeah, I knew _that,_ he said, his voice hoarse. You're amazing. Where am I?

\- Do you want to tell me your name?

\- My name is... he reached down to his chest, for some reason. It was flat.

It was right.

He had expected scars, but there were none. It felt harder, tougher than he remembered. His whole body felt stronger, though he was still weak, it was not the same weakness as he could vaguely remember. This one was... temporary.

... His name was probably not [REDACTED] anymore, huh. His hair was greasy, his lips were thin, just like he'd felt like they should be. He had more hair on his arms and chest and stomach. He knew who these people were, but he didn't know ... who they were. He knew they were friends. The closest, dearest friends. The bedside friend spoke again. Their gaze was so soft.

\- We'd like to call you Grantaire?

He nodded weakly. That was right. He didn't have to think about the rest right now. He looked around at the other friends. The lovely, sweetest, dearest friends.

He remembered having seen this kind of situation before. A man with amnesia had seen his wife, and, not remembering having ever met her before, he told her she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He - Grantaire - remembered thinking that the man had loved his wife, and the love had stayed with him, even when he had no memory of loving her, and no idea why he loved her. He had concluded that your feelings do not disappear with your memories. It seemed in line with some TED Talk he'd seen, too.

This is why Grantaire knew he loved Joly, and the other person who'd come to sit next to them, and everyone else in this room full of radiance and beauty. They kept their distance, but he knew they were wonderful. He could not name their individual passions and traits, but he could feel them. He knew these people by heart, not by memory. More troubling, he could vaguely see their deaths, as though having watched them from far away. The cinematography was only okay, but he'd felt it deep in his soul.

But he could tell something was off. There was a hole in the vague shape of a blinding light. There was something missing, and it hurt him in every fibre of his being.

He should not exist without this missing piece.

The missing piece had been sitting in another end of the room, quietly conversing. Even the people he talked to were more noticeable than him. He was subdued, focused. He did not notice that the man who had just been unconscious was now trying to sit up, just looking for him. The quiet conversation went on for some time, until someone nudged him and gestured for him towards the bed. He got up. Everyone else pretended not to look.

The blinding light was there, and so were all of Grantaire's sensations. He could feel his hand as though it held something, warm and precious. He could feel his heart everywhere, he could feel his death a million times, and it was the most profound sense of accomplishment, of acceptance, of contentment, of pride and of love. He smiled; the blinding light did not.

\- You're why I died, he croaked. The blinding light frowned.

\- I... venerate you, he tried again. The blinding light looked away, brow furrowed. The other sweet, dear faces looked concerned.

\- You don't care for me, he concluded, quietly, dropping himself back down onto the mattress. That's okay, I think I knew that.

He still kept his hand on his chest. There was muscle. There was no scar. He remembered trying to imagine the scars, the unnatural flatness, the worry, the possible regret. The comments and questions and concerns. He hadn't had to make the decision he'd been dreading. There were no scars.

The blinding light remembered. As did most others, but not all the way through to the end. Except Grantaire, for some reason. He'd found him, and he was just as bad as usual. He'd be of absolutely no help.

But it was nice to not be alone.

This would take time, but it would work. It would be better. He knew they'd succeed eventually, and he knew Grantaire would not let him down in their shared final moment, whenever that arrived. One time they'd gotten to be old, and they'd still shared that moment. But it wasn't the right one.

The blinding light left, and so did all of Grantaire's sensations.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for myself, but put it here in case others could gain something from it. I know I tend towards vagueness so it'd be nice to hear readers' interpretations!


End file.
